Into the Night
by Elysium94
Summary: Winter has come. As the War of the Five Kings draws to a bloody close, the war for mankind's survival draws ever nearer. Jon Snow, freed from the Night's Watch, must unite the realm to face the threat from the far north. As the other lost Starks find their way home the Long Night will descend on them, and their fates are tied to the coming of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.
1. The Storm Arrives

_Blood._

_Snow._

_Cold steel biting into his hand._

Jon opened his eyes. He was flat on his back with his arms and legs splayed out around him. There was a terrible pain in his side, and he could not longer even feel his right hand.

Pulling himself up the King in the North drew in a ragged breath, coughing violent as several snowflakes caused his throat to burn. He looked down and saw a pool of red spreading on the icy ground under him. Jon's leather gambeson was horribly rent, with a painful gash running up his ribs.

His hand was wounded as well, with the armored glove almost completely scorched away.

_What in Seven Hells happened?_

Jon received his answer as a load roar nearly caused his head to split open. Despite the pain running wracking through his body he dashed to his feet. Two massive wings passed over his head, shielding him from the blistering cold wind, and the scarred head of Rhaegal lowered towards him.

As the dragon spewed fire at the horde of dead men rushing them, Jon hefted his sword, ready to strike down any that came too close. The air rang with the clashing of metal, of human and inhuman screams.

The din was then muffled under the otherworldly shriek of another dragon. A monstrous dark shape plunged down from the sky and landed fifty yards from Jon. The ground beneath him and Rhaegal quaked, and the dazed warrior was nearly thrown off balance.

Ahead of Jon and Rhaegal was a great black dragon, its piercing blue eyes looking straight at them. Blue flames erupted from its mouth, and the pale rider atop it brandished his sickle-sword menacingly.

Jon's knuckles cracked around Longclaw's hilt.

"Come on… you cold, dead _bastard_."

As the war for the dawn raged in the distance, the leader of the Others and his steed began to move towards Jon.

Spitting out a fleck of blood Jon Snow raised Longclaw, ready to face the end.

* * *

**SEVEN MONTHS AGO**

_The War of the Five Kings is over._

_In the south House Lannister has crumbled under the heel of the Faith Militant. Princess Myrcella is dead at the hands of the renegade princess Arianne Martell, and war between Dorne and the mainland draws ever closer._

_In the west, the Iron Islands retreat their forces from the mainland after being crushed by the new rulers of the North, House Bolton._

_In the north, the armies of Roose Bolton are crippled after a crushing battle against the northern alliance of King Stannis Baratheon. Though Stannis is nowhere to be found, and his hosts are scattered by the coming of winter, the Boltons' authority over the North now hangs by a thread._

_And in the east, legends continue to spread of a Targaryen queen._

_Now as Castle Black reels from the death and resurrection of its commander, Jon Snow, he faces a choice that will determine the future of his country and his world…_

**...**

**...**

**CASTLE BLACK**

The Lord Commander's chambers were silent. Despite the cold winds outside the air in the room was still, almost smothering. By his bedside, the man who until today had been the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch stood fuming.

Jon Snow looked down at his old uniform as it sat in a useless heap. Between the numerous cuts and holes in the shirt and leather jerkin, it wasn't of any more use to him. Not that he would need it where he was going.

And he was indeed going.

After all he had sacrificed, all he had done for them, the Night's Watch had betrayed him. Even now Jon could still feel every knife the mutineers had plunged into him. He could see their faces, cold and merciless as they butchered him. Their leader. Their sworn brother.

_Traitor_, they had called him. The Long Night, the greatest threat Westeros had ever known, was practically on their doorstep. But all Thorne and his mutineers cared about was their hate for the "wildlings". Nothing he said made a difference to them.

"They left me no choice," he murmured to himself.

"No choice."

Jon had been telling himself the same thing all night. It was all he could do to not lose his mind. But it was morning now, and damned if he was going to stay another night in this place. Standing up from the bed Jon reached for a spare ranging outfit resting on his table. It was a blue tunic, put together with greyish pants and studded leather armor.

One of the stewards recommended the armor for Jon's protection, should any other members of the Watch attempt to revolt again and avenge Thorne.

Examining the outfit Jon allowed himself a smile. It looked like something that would have belonged to his father. Fitting, he thought, given he very nearly shared Eddard's fate.

Jon was fully dressed when he heard a light rapping on the door.

"Come in," he said flatly. He turned around, expecting Edd to come through. No doubt to try and convince him to stay.

Again.

The first thing he saw was a cascade of striking red hair, brighter than Edd's, and for a moment he thought it was Tormund instead. But it wasn't him either.

Removing her crimson shawl, Lady Melisandre of Asshai entered his chambers. She stopped before Jon, bowing her head respectfully.

"Jon Snow. May we speak for a moment, before you depart?"

"No one's stopping you," Jon said brusquely and sat at his table.

With a grateful smile the red priestess joined him. Sitting across from Jon she folded her thin hands, running one across the other gently as if to warm them. Jon thought back to their first meeting as he had awaited the orders of King Stannis Baratheon. Melisandre has seemed so confident then. So sure of her power, of her Lord's blessings keeping her warm in this icy corner of the world.

Now he could see there was change in her. The priestess was dressed in a thicker dress, with her shawl drawn in more tightly than it had been before Stannis's march. Melisandre drew a less ethereal picture now. She appeared more _human_.

Had bringing him back from the dead taken so much of a toll on the woman? Or what is something else that had weakened her so?

"What happened down there?"

Melisandre sighed.

"We rallied several of the northern houses to our call. Houses Manderly, Mazin, Hornwood and Umber lent their support in addition to the wildling scouting force. We won a battle against the Boltons and drove them back to Winterfell. But a storm hit, and King Stannis ordered his queen and the princess back here. As the blizzard lasted into the night, we were attacked by the bastard Ramsay Bolton."

She paused.

"The army was scattered, and Stannis remained behind to hold the Boltons off. I saw nothing more of him"

"What happened to Selyse," Jon asked. "And Shireen?"

The priestess's eyes went vacant.

"The did not survive the storm."

Jon thought back to Stannis's exodus from the wall. How sure of victory they were.

How wrong they were. The War of the Five Kings, the war between the Night's Watch and the Freefolk, all doomed to end in failure.

"I know you mean to go south," Melisandre said. "You mean to leave the Night's Watch behind you once and for all. After what transpired here, I do not blame you."

Melisandre's brow furrowed.

"But I also know what you saw in the far north. The power that consumed the lands of the Freefolk will not stop there. From its domain in the Land of Always Winter, it comes for your people and mine."

Jon felt his stomach clench at the mention of the massacre at Hardhome. He closed his eyes, and he could still see the pair of blue eyes that had followed him even as he retreated out to the sea.

"I know. But there's nothing more I can do."

"I do not believe that," Melisandre said.

"Few men could endure what you have endured. You won the good faith of the Lord Commander that came before you, and the King Beyond the Wall. You brokered a peace between the Freefolk and the Night's Watch, mortal enemies that have slaughtered each other by the thousands.

Your work is not done."

"It is," Jon said forcefully. "If you know what I saw, then you know we can't beat it. I told Ser Davos already, I tried. And I failed."

He paused, his breath growing ragged.

"You said your god brought me back for a reason. What reason was that?"

Even as Jon's features flushed and the lump in his throat grew, Melisandre remained unnaturally poised. It was almost infuriating, Jon thought. Time and again the red woman had shown such little care for the fears and doubts of those around her, that her faith was all that mattered.

The same faith that led thousands of men to death in the name of her king. Her 'savior', Stannis Baratheon

"The men who betrayed you did not understand the mortal danger the White Walkers posed to us all. But you understand. You and those that followed you. It will be on you to warn the world of the living, and when the time comes we must be ready to fight."

Jon shook his head. "No. There's no fighting _him._"

"And who is 'he', Jon Snow?"

Melisandre's voice grew wary. Her gaze seemed to penetrate through Jon, far deeper than any of the mutineers' knives.

"Who did you see at Hardhome that frightens you so?"

Forcing himself to go back to the wildling village up north, Jon wandered through every image the massacre burned into his head until he found the one the red priestess wanted.

"I saw a White Walker at the front of the dead army," he answered. "He was… different from the rest. The others in his army were clad in black armor, wielding blades made from ice. But he carried no weapon. His armor was faded, cold and grey. His head was covered in something like a crown, made from ice just like the rest of him."

Jon felt himself shaking, and not only from the cold.

"His eyes were darker than the rest. He looked right at me as I retreated. Even when those thousands of men, women and children he killed rose to join him, he never once turned away."

Melisandre sat transfixed as Jon told his tale. Raptly she peered at the young commander, not blinking until he was finished. For the first time since he had met her, Jon could see something in her face something that chilled him more the cold winds outside.

Fear.

Melisandre, a priestess of the Lord of Light, an ageless being holding power over life and death themselves, was afraid.

"You saw the Night King."

Jon blinked, confused.

"Who?"

Breathing in slowly Melisandre leaned back in her seat, holding her hand out to a candle sitting between them. The delicate flame flickered as her hand drew near, seeming to grow a deeper red.

"You must have heard many stories of the Age of Heroes in your youth, Jon Snow. I heard one such tale myself, of a man who led the Night's Watch in its early days. He was the thirteenth man to bear the title of 'Lord Commander', a fierce and noble warrior.

Until the day he found love in a woman from the far north, a cold white figure who claimed his soul and turned him against his brothers."

Jon almost laughed. He had heard this story before.

He thought back to his days at Winterfell so long ago, and the woman that would tell his brothers and sisters such stories. Old Nan, her name was. His laugh died in his throat when Jon remembered just how long it was since he had seen the kindly old woman, or any of the old familiar faces at the place he once called home.

Then his thoughts returned to the present, and what Melisandre was saying now. "But the Night's King was just a mortal man. The Starks and the Free Folk overthrew him and slew his queen."

"They did." Melisandre kept her hand steady beside the candle.

"But we both know his queen was only one of many, and I fear the name he took may have belonged to someone, or _something_ else. Something far older than the Night's Watch and the kingdoms they protect."

A heavy silence bore down on the two, and they sat quietly for several minutes. Jon ruminated on Melisandre's words, staring at the candle while his hands clenched and unclenched again furiously. Time and again he tried to keep his mind in the here and now, away from the past or the future.

Neither seemed particularly bright to him.

"I'm not staying here. I don't care if what you say is true, there's nothing to be won here at Castle Black."

Melisandre bowed her head. "If you have already made your decision, I will not attempt to steer you from it. But I have one request, if you will hear it."

"Go on," Jon said with a shrug.

"I wish to come with you."

Melisandre's mouth opened, but before she could say anything Jon's door opened again.

In strode Eddison Tollett, better known to his brothers as Dolorous Edd. Jon's companion had grown leaner in their time at the Wall, his beard thicker and more unkempt. As Edd walked up to his former commander Jon could not help but notice the heavy bags under Edd's eyes.

_I suppose he had trouble sleeping too._

"So," Edd remarked, "You really were serious yesterday."

Jon nodded, doing his best not to wilt under Edd's gaze. His friend had said nothing when Jon declared his choice to leave the Night's Watch, but no words were necessary. Edd's look of shame and sorrow when handed the commander's mantle still clung to Jon, almost making him wish he could take it back.

"Where are you planning on going?"

"South," Jon said.

"Somewhere warmer."

"And you're not planning on coming back?" Incredulity was etched into every line of Edd's face.

"Jon," Edd pleaded in a tone that suggested the man was close to breaking, "You can't let it end like this. When you were there, up north, I was right there with you. We saw what's out there. How can you leave us now?"

"I did what I could…"

"I don't want to hear it. You swore an oath, and I'm here to hold you to it."

Edd's voice was growing harder now as he cut Jon off, his confusion and shock clearly giving way to anger now.

Jon felt his own ire starting to rise. A whole day had passed, and Edd was still unable to comprehend what was happening. It was hard to blame him for it, put in his shoes it was hard to know what Jon would do. But that was his problem, not Jon's. Nothing he said or did would change Jon's mind now.

"Aye," he growled and rose to his feet.

"I remember. I pledged my life to the Night's Watch, and I gave it. As far as I'm concerned, I don't owe anything more to them."

Edd fired back, "You pledged to serve them for all the nights to come!"

"_THEY KILLED ME!_"

Letting all his grief and frustration finally take him, Jon hurled his words at Edd and tossed his chair aside hard enough for one of the legs to snap. He met his brother with a defiant glare, not intending to give any ground.

"My own brothers… I fought with them, bled with them, and they murdered me. How can you expect me to just forget that? How can you ask me to stay here?"

"I have already tried to convince him," Melisandre said diplomatically and placed herself between the two men. "Whatever path he chooses, the Lord will keep him safe, Eddison Tollett."

Edd glanced at her in annoyance. "All due respect, my lady, but I wasn't talking to you. Whatever your god wants with Jon, that's not my concern. He's _our_ brother and only we…"

The tension between them was broken by the sound of a horn, a single clear blast. Jon's eyes crossed to his window, and he waited for a second blast. Tormund Giantsbane was awaiting the return of a scouting party foraging for food.

But no second blast came. Only the bustle of the castle's guards. After a brief silence, the throaty voice of the sentry cried out, "_Open the gate!_"

Jon exchanged a puzzled look with both Melisandre and Edd, then strolled out onto the balcony overlooking Castle Black's courtyard. Many of the Free Folk were gathered around, with Night's Watch brothers keeping their distance. Of course, Jon thought bitterly, before he saw what caught their attention. Four riders were trotting through the front gate, each wearing heavy cloaks worn from travel.

Survivors from Stannis's army, Jon concluded. Who else could it be? He made his way to the stairs descending from his quarters to the courtyard, ready to offer any assistance the travelers needed. But when the rider at the front removed her cloak, Jon's mouth fell open. The rider was a woman, taller than any Jon had ever seen. Her features were broad and rather unfeminine, and her blonde hair was short and unkempt. Her eyes, however, were large and bright blue, as beautiful as any other highborn lady's. What captured Jon's attention the most, however, was not the woman's appearance but her apparel.

It was armor, heavy plated armor colored a deep greyish-blue.

Overall the woman was a rather startling sight. Most of the men around her either shared uncomfortable glances or averted their gaze entirely, but one of them kept his trained squarely on her.

The expression of awe on Tormund Giantsbane's face was comical, as if he was falling in love right on the spot. Jon almost managed a laugh at the sight until the second rider came into view, dropping off her horse.

Jon's heart stopped. It was another woman, much younger than her companion. When her head swiveled around and she saw him, she halted as well, allowing him to get a proper view.

It appeared as if her hair was tied into a braid, though the cold air and travel had turned it brittle and disheveled. Her features were fuller than Jon remembered, and she was now as tall as him, but there was no mistaking Sansa Stark.

Sansa gaped at Jon, her mouth half- open in obvious shock. Despite the cold he could see her cheeks growing redder, and her lip trembling. Jon wanted to move closer to her, but before he could so much as finish his first step his memory caught up to him.

He remembered his years at Winterfell. The scorn and shame with which so many had looked at him. The sting of his bastard name, Snow, on the lips of guards, servants, Lady Catelyn…

And her eldest daughter.

The pain held Jon back from reaching out to Sansa. She had tried so desperately, so many times, to live up to her mother's example. Her manner, the way she dressed, her love of old songs and stories, and the distance she kept from him.

But as they stood no more than three feet from one another, and Sansa's eyes began to grow wet, Jon remembered his last talk with their father.

_You are a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood._

_You are a Stark._

The years of pain and resentment melted away. None of that mattered anymore, and Jon opened his arms in time for Sansa to dash towards him, wrapping hers around him tightly. All thoughts of the Night's Watch, the White Walkers and any wars to the north or south faded away as the Starks held each other.

She was openly weeping now, and Jon quickly joined her.

They stayed where they were for a good minute, long enough that Jon could make sure his sibling stopped shaking. When he was ready, Jon gently let go of her and wiped his eyes. They both shared a relieved smile.

A shuffling behind Jon broke the moment, and he heard a ragged cough. Sansa's eyes moved to its source and her smile fell. Her features turned blank, almost impossible to read, as if it was a trained response on her part.

"Jon Snow…"

Again, Jon felt his body tense up, and he whirled around in disbelief.

Leaning on a makeshift crutch, and supported by a dark-haired boy in squire's clothing, was King Stannis Baratheon.

"Your Grace… You're alive!"

Nearly falling to one knee, Jon was stopped by a raised hand from the king. Stannis shook his head, clearly in great pain. There were several heavy bandages wrapped around his right leg, and the king's complexion was pale and sickly.

"We should speak inside, Snow. Winter is upon us, and death will soon follow."

**...**

**...**

* * *

**PYKE**

The walls and battlements of Pyke held strong as a terrible storm raged around it. Torrents of rain pelted the old stone fortress, and wave after wave crashed on the sea far below.

Balon Greyjoy, self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands, stood by the fireplace of his Great Hall with a look of utter misery. His daughter Yara stood close by, reading from a written note, though from his bearing it was difficult to tell if he was listening. With the news Yara bore, Balon likely would have preferred to listen to the rolls of thunder outside.

"Deepwood Motte has fallen. The Glovers retook it with the help of King Stannis Baratheon."

Balon remained still, one hand propped against an ornate wooden chair. The only sign of movement was his fist, tightening around the head of the chair until his knuckles lost all color.

"And the Ironborn who held it?"

Yara's face was blank, and she closed her eyes before answering, "They died fighting, to a man."

"What is dead may never die."

Yara crumpled the note in her hands and tossed it aside in frustration. So many times before she had said the words dutifully, and with pride, but her voice rang with bitterness this time.

"What is dead may never die. But they _did_. And our invasion died with them."

Balon moved from his spot at last, walking to his daughter stiffly. The events of the past few years had aged Balon visibly. His once iron-grey hair was now whiter, the lines in his face set deeper than before. Even his eyes no longer held the steely resolve they once had.

Yet he pressed on. "Our invasion is not dead. This war is far from over, and when it is done, we will stand victorious."

"Deepwood Motte was our last stronghold on the mainland," Yara protested. "We hold no more castles from which to strike out at our enemies."

Balon shook his head as if to drown out her words.

"Then we will take more!"

"For more pinecones and rocks? We can defeat any of our enemies at sea, but on land the armies of the seven kingdoms are too strong. Why should we keep fighting and wasting more Ironborn lives in a fight we cannot win?"

Yara's father snapped, "Because I order it!"

She made no effort to hide how disappointed she was and stood at her full height to glower back at Balon. She loved her father, and had proved so time and again, but she would not allow his stubbornness to blind him to the truth.

They had lost this war.

"We cannot win this, Father. We should pull our people back, tend to our wounds and rebuild our strength, or more will die for nothing."

"Our people die in service to their king," Balon snarled, "And we will only continue to lose if our captains disobey my command, abandon their posts and sacrifice our men on doomed missions."

He leaned his head to one side, contempt dripping from his voice.

"Be thankful you are my daughter, if not I would have you stripped of your rank and handed your ship to your uncle Victarion. He may be a dullard, but at least he understands loyalty."

Yara's hand itched, almost moving to punch Balon for his callousness.

"I won't apologize for trying to help my little brother."

Openly sneering this time, Balon asked, "And where is your little brother?"

"Where is your _kingdom?_"

Balon froze in front of her, clearly caught off guard by her defiance. His eyes bulged in anger, his mouth tightening into a thin line. The two Greyjoys both seemed ready to fight openly, but after a tense silence they both backed away, visibly forcing themselves to remain calm.

"The North was at war when you had us invade, Father. But the War of the Five Kings is over, and their new warden will not allow any dissent. If we provoke the North again, the last time they lay siege to our islands will be mercy compared to what the Boltons have in store.

Do you even remember, Father? Do you remember our towers collapsing, our men being slaughtered in droves? I lost two brothers that day."

"And I lost three sons," Balon groaned sadly, "Of _course_ I remember. I also remember that the other so-called kings of Westeros are gone. Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon and his uncles, all gone."

Balon fumed. It was hard for Yara to tell what angered him more, the fact that he had been unable to kill any of these other kings himself or his failure to hold the mainland even after they were gone.

"When you rule," he said more calmly, "When I am gone and the Seastone Chair is yours, you may rule however you wish. Until that day comes you will obey me, as your father and as your king."

With that, Balon stormed out of the Great Hall and left Yara alone with her thoughts.

She gazed at the Seastone Chair, black and oily and ancient. Was this all her family would have left in the end? Some old throne and a drafty castle, sitting on a barren spit of land?

Yara walked to the fireplace, watching as the charred and blackened wood crumbled into embers before its flame finally went out.

Appropriate, she thought. The fire was the war that consumed Westeros, and from it the Iron Islands had emerged as little more than embers. An afterthought.

The Old Way had failed them.

_If I rule, Father, things must change. I hope your spirit will forgive me for it._

**...**

**...**

Outside of the castle, Balon's thin form was illuminated by the occasional lightning as he walked to a bridge connecting the Great Hall to the Sea Tower. He had stayed awake for most of the night and would need at least some rest before launching a new campaign in the morning.

If there was to be another campaign. Yara had been right about one thing; the Ironborn's morale grew weaker by the day.

Balon started across the bridge. Though it was old and creaked loudly in the strong winds it held fast. The old king stepped across it slowly and carefully, having done so many times and in many storms.

He was halfway across when something materialized from the darkness ahead of him. From the Sea Tower, a cloaked stranger had emerged and was now on the bridge. Whoever it was must have been either courageous, mad or both, as his gait was leisurely and relaxed.

"Let me pass," Balon shouted over the rain around them.

He received no answer. Instead, the stranger folded his hands and watched Balon as if to have a conversation with him.

"Fool," he barked, "Move aside for your king!"

Though most of the hooded man's face was still concealed, a lightning flash above him highlighted his mouth. A pair of blue lips parted in a wide smile akin to a hungry wolf. The stranger's grin spread wider, and he at last spoke.

"Haven't I always, brother?"

Balon nearly lost his balance, faltering as if the stranger had hit him.

The other man lowered his hood. His face was sharp, framed with a dark beard and black-grey hair. A dark eyepatch covered his left eye, while the bright blue right eye pointed ahead at Balon. His smile remained, growing ever wider.

"Euron." Balon growled the name, his teeth grinding hard as he did so.

"I should have known you would return sooner or later. Though I had hoped you'd be rotting at the bottom of some foreign sea by now."

"What is dead may never die," Euron Greyjoy said airily. He watched Balon a little longer before dropping his smile, assuming a rather offended look.

"I'm sorry, Balon, has the custom changed since I left? Aren't you supposed to repeat the words?"

Balon spat on the wooden planks in front of his younger brother, furious at the blasphemy.

"You can mock our god without _my_ help. Don't expect me to welcome you with open arms, not after what you did."

The younger Greyjoy brother approached Balon, not seeming too bothered by his harsh words.

"I don't mock the Drowned God. I honor him wherever I go."

"_Honor?_" Balon narrowed his eyes. "Don't speak to me of honor. Or godliness."

"On the contrary, Balon, I'm the godliest man you'll ever meet. From Ib to Asshai, from Oldtown to Qarth, when men see my sails… they pray."

A sudden gust almost knocked him over, forcing the king to grab the ropes of the bridge to steady himself. Euron had no such trouble, however. He remained still, like the wind was only a small nuisance.

With a laugh he said, "You're old, Balon. You have had your time, and our people have seen nothing but failure. I think it's time for you to step aside. Let another rule."

The boldness of the claim drew a fierce scowl from Balon. Years ago, after their failed rebellion against the Iron Throne, Euron had committed a terrible crime against their brother Victarion. He had violated his wife, facing exile as punishment for as long as Balon ruled. Yet after more than ten years, he still showed no sign of remorse. If anything, it appeared he was goading Balon, trying to reopen old wounds.

Not giving him the satisfaction Balon approached Euron and remarked, "I heard you lost your mind during a storm on the Jade Sea. They tied you to the mast, to keep you from jumping overboard."

"They did," Euron said matter-of-factly, with a falsely humble shrug.

"And afterwards, when the storm passed, you cut out their tongues."

Nostalgia swept over Euron, and he appeared to treasure the memory rather than notice Balon's condemning tone. "Well, I needed silence."

"Tell me, _Crow's Eye_, what kind of an Ironborn loses his senses during a _storm_?"

Again, for the second time that night, Balon let his contempt take ahold of him and threw his words at Euron with cruel abandon. The two brothers were almost face to face now, and it was clear that the years apart had not softened their feelings towards one another.

Euron's face grew frighteningly serene.

"I am the storm, brother. The first storm and the last."

He took one more step to Balon, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"_And you're in my way._"

Neither Greyjoy said anything more. The decades of resentment, betrayal and violence said all that needed to be said. Euron was many things, but restrained and controlled were not among them. His moments of relaxation were rare, and they only ever preceded one thing.

Balon's dagger flashed out of his belt, and his arm moved in a blur to slash at Euron's throat. But it was stopped short as the fearsome pirate captain caught the blade in his gloved hand. There was a loud crash of thunder as the younger, stronger Greyjoy wrenched the weapon away from Balon and seized him by the scruff of the neck.

There was another rumble of thunder, the loudest yet, and above them a lightning bolt split the night sky. Euron's features were fully lit now. He was smiling again, his teeth bared and his blue eye almost bulging out of its socket.

With a strangled cry, Balon Greyjoy was tossed over the rope beside them. The King of the Iron Islands plummeted down into the darkness below them, screaming the whole way down until his voice was lost in a faint splash.

The Crow's Eye stayed where he was, perched on the old wood of the bridge like the bird after the bird that was his namesake. He turned to look at the dagger taken from his brother, a finely made weapon made from castle-forged steel and marked with an ornate hilt.

Pocketing the weapon with a grin, the kinslayer pulled up his hood and wandered back the way he came. He was not ready to make his presence known, not yet. But he would be soon enough.

The Ironborn had lost their king. They would need a new one.

_And long may he reign._

* * *

**Author's Note: And the Game of Thrones is kicked off again.**

**At this point I imagine we're all a little burned out on how the TV series ended. I myself was incredibly bummed, thinking it was a rushed mess that made no effort to honor GRRM's work. So, I decided to make lemonade and come up with a fanfic to make us feel better.**

**Going forward, this story will be a partial retelling of the events of Season 6 through 8, with a focus on Jon Snow and the Starks. The story will harken more to the books, and I will delve deeper into the Long Night and the White Walkers. The threat of the Army of the Dead WILL be the endgame.**

**As you may have noticed, I've already also changed some of the events of the show retroactively.**

**1: Stannis is alive, and some of his story in Season 5 is changed.**

**2: The Dorne plot is more book-oriented, a little streamlined but not whatever it was D&D gave us. The Sand Snakes are going to be their books counterparts, and Arianne Martell will feature.**

**3: Euron Greyjoy is his book counterpart in full force, and I'll have some dark disturbing twists tying his story into the buildup to (and events of) the Long Night. Victarion and his group are also involved. Picture Euron appearing like Mads Mikkelsen, and Ray Stevenson playing Victarion.**

**I hope you guys enjoy this first chapter, and the ride that follows. I wish you all good fortune.**


	2. Wars to Come

**WINTERFELL**

"Gone. Gone, and nowhere to be found."

In the Great Hall of Winterfell, Lord Roose Bolton sat fuming at his table. His pale eyes glinted with barely suppressed fury as he glowered at the young man across from him.

Ramsay Bolton, formerly known by the bastard name Snow, stood with his hands clasped behind him. His head was bowed in shame, and as much as he tried, he could not look at his father for more than a few seconds without turning away.

"I do hope," Roose said in the kind of low voice that usually preceded a burst of violence, "That you have at least some understanding of what you have done. The false king Stannis Baratheon is nowhere to be found. Scores of his army escape your grasp, ready to regroup against us if the chance arises."

"We won a great victory, Father." Ramsay's voice sounded low and feeble, and he cursed himself. Both he and his father knew just how hollow such a claim was.

"Do you feel like a victor?"

Roose tilted his head condescendingly.

"Our enemies may yet have been forced to call a truce, if we still had Sansa Stark. I risked rebellion, with my plans to wed you to her.

And when the crown learns of this planned treason, a reckoning will come. Then you will face a provisioned and well-trained royal army, not just a loose alliance of rebels and mercenaries.

Ramsay's face was burning. His otherwise pale featured were turning redder by the moment.

"But we hold the North. They will stand with us…"

"The North would stand with Sansa Stark. And we do not have Sansa Stark."

Though his voice barely raised at all, Roose's hand slammed on the table, silencing his son. Standing up sharply, the Lord of the Dreadfort and Winterfell made his way towards Ramsay. When they were face to face, Roose placed a hand on the bastard's shoulder. His grip was like a vice, and Ramsay had to muster all his strength not to flinch.

"I name you my heir. I grant you a title, and a place in my house as a Bolton, and still you play your games and act as the mad dog everyone thinks you to be."

Ramsay force his words out, ignoring a familiar sensation overcoming him. Though no hand was placed on his throat, it felt as if he was being strangled, slowly and deliberately.

"My best men are still searching for them, father. I have hounds and guards scouring the regions north of here. We will find their trail, and in a matter of days we will know where Sansa and Reek both are. And if we find Stannis Baratheon, I will see to his death myself."

"Good," Roose answered brusquely. "If you are to be my heir, you should quickly see to it that you produce one of your own, with your betrothed."

Even as he turned away, Ramsay felt no safer.

"Or else… Well, I only hope that the maesters are right. And Lady Walda's child is to be a boy."

A trueborn boy, Ramsay thought. Neither he nor his father had to say it out loud, they both knew it.

When Roose did not continue, and only looked out the window to survey the castle, Ramsay turned on his heel and left.

His mind then wandered to the familiar comforts of torture and the hunt. When he found poor Reek, he would not settle for mere flaying. He would peel the flesh from the wretch's bones as Sansa watched. He would burn, cut and twist Reek in ways that would drive the man even further into madness than any before him.

And when it was done, when he had her back in his grasp, Sansa Stark would spend their entire wedding night wishing she had never been born.

Ramsay walked outside to the courtyard, ready to go to the kennels and fetch his hounds. Though he did not have Sansa or Reek, perhaps a good peasant girl or two would sate him for now.

But before he could go, Ramsay was intercepted by Maester Wolkan.

"My lord, I have news for your father. Where is he?"

Ramsay sneered at the old maester. It did not surprise him that his father was back to conducting business without his knowledge.

"In the Great Hall," he snapped. "Now get out of my way, old man, I…"

Ramsay stopped mid-sentence. There was something strange in the other man's bearing. A smell that clung to him.

The smell of blood.

"Maester Wolkan… what news do you bring?"

His low tone caused the color to drain from Wolkan's face. "My lord," the maester mumbled, "I think Lord Bolton should hear this as soon as possible. I don't want to delay any business you have to…"

"I am here to hear it now," Ramsay snarled.

"Tell me."

Wolkan flinched before he straightened his back and cleared his throat, answering shakily.

"Lady Walda has given birth. You have a brother, my lord."

Ramsay's entire body seized. His limbs felt like blocks of ice. He could not breathe, he could not even think. Any sensation quickly left him, leaving the bastard numb.

"A brother."

"Yes, my lord. Uh, congratulations."

Ramsay wanted to throw the old man to the ground and cave in his face.

_Congratulations?_ Wolkan may as well have told Ramsay that he had examined his shit and found fleshworms, or that Stannis Baratheon was right outside Winterfell ready for a proper siege.

He forced a smile to his face. "That's all, then?"

The maester's mouth opened, then closed. Wolkan nodded, letting his eyes fall to the ground and his head to bow.

"Well," Ramsay growled, "Go on then. Tell my father the good news."

Wolkan left without another word, his chain jangling as he almost broke into a run.

Ramsay Bolton stood in the courtyard, alone. More alone than he had ever felt.

His father had another heir now, a trueborn one at that. It was only a matter of time before this one would replace him. Even as he carried the name Bolton, all would continue to see him as Ramsay Snow.

Or would they?

Ramsay's eyes narrowed, and he looked out at the setting sun. The day would wane quickly, he thought. Most in the castle had exhausted themselves, readying defenses for the possibility of a siege from any number of their enemies.

Roose Bolton himself had barely slept in days.

Still planted in one spot, Ramsay let his mind begin to twist and turn again. This time to actions in the night. A chance to save his new title and authority and then take revenge on those who humiliated him.

There would be no hunting today.

But come sunrise, his dogs might be receiving an unexpected treat.

* * *

**CASTLE BLACK**

**FIVE DAYS LATER**

In the dining hall, Jon sat opposite Sansa as she dug into a loaf of bread, with a steaming bowl of soup close by.

She had barely stopped eating for some time now, Jon observed. Though it only made sense, given the distance she had traveled and how little time for rest she had. Winterfell was no short distance from the Wall.

Dropping the loaf Sansa took the soup bowl and downed half of it in one gulp. A grin crossed her face.

"That's good."

"The men of the Night's Watch aren't exactly pampered, not like the lords in the south. So we do the best we can with what we have."

"Makes me think of those pies Old Nan used to make. The ones with the peas and onions, Bran couldn't get enough of those."

Though they were both smiling, Jon could tell fell Sansa's pain just by looking at her. And not just any wear and tear from riding in the cold, but a pain far deeper than any cut or bruise or frostbite.

It was the look of a girl ripped out of an idyllic, peaceful life and thrust into a violent dangerous world before her time had come.

"We never should have left Winterfell," Jon murmured in a hollow voice.

"You've done well enough for yourself," Sansa replied. "I just wish I could go back to the day I left. I wish I could take myself by the shoulders and _scream._ 'Don't go, you idiot.' I'd scream it at the top of my lungs if I had to."

As her eyes fell, Jon took Sansa by the hand and squeezed it.

"There's no way either of us could have known. Where we'd end up, what we'd have to do just to live another day. But we're here now. You're alive…"

Jon could hear his voice trailing off at the end, and though he sensed the irony in what he was telling Sansa the former Lord Commander kept it to himself. Things had grown dark enough without his sister knowing the truth of what happened to him.

Even as Sansa replied, "So are you," Jon merely nodded along.

As he kept his silence, Sansa finished her meal and walked to the fireplace, rubbing her hands together in the red light.

Jon knew he could only wait so long before asking. Sansa had told him only scant details on how she arrived at the Castle. That she was a prisoner of House Bolton, that Theon Greyjoy of all people helped her escape as well as the armed lady Brienne.

Nothing beyond that.

"Sansa…" Jon stood up and joined her at the fire.

"What happened at Winterfell? How did the Boltons get ahold of you?"

Sansa's hands clenched tightly. Even in the dim red light of the fire, Jon could see her knuckled whiten as she flexed her fingers, as if she was itching to break something.

"_Littlefinger._"

"Lord Petyr Baelish?"

The mere mention of the lord's name brought a look of utter revulsion to his sister's face. Jon was taken aback, never had he seen such hatred in her.

"I already told you Baelish took me to the Vale, after King Joffrey's death. But I didn't tell you why.

It was Baelish who planned King Joffrey's death. Him, and Olenna Tyrell. They poisoned him at his wedding, and Baelish whisked me away. He took me to the Eyrie, had me sheltered by the lords and ladies of the Vale."

Jon attempted to understand what such an action could do to harm her.

He found his answers when she went on, "I was left at the mercy of Lysa Arryn. I'd hoped I would be safe with her, that being with family would give me some respite from the months of hell I faced at King's Landing."

Jon was not able to resist a rueful smirk. "And let me guess… Things only got worse."

"It was hard to tell, really," Sansa said. "Whereas Joffrey amused himself by pointing a crossbow or insulting me in front of the court, dear Aunt Lysa saw fit to threaten me with a drop out of the Moon Door.

She was mad, lost to all reason. Thought I was trying to take her Petyr away from her. She believed it until the end, when she fell through the door to her death after one last fit."

There was a subtle change in her tone as Sansa finished. Her eyes turned away for but a moment before meeting his again.

It was not difficult for Jon to understand what was going on. She was not telling him everything. Perhaps reliving everything was too painful for now, or there was something she meant to tell him later.

_Just as you're hiding the truth from her,_ Jon thought, trying not to hate himself for it.

"The Lords of the Vale had little choice but to name Baelish regent for all the Vale. Lord Protector, he's now called, so long as he's able to whisper into little Robins ears. The boy's as devoted to him as Lysa was.

Baelish took me abroad and began to tutor me in the ways of courting, deceit. Had me dye my hair and act as his bastard daughter. Alayne Stone. No one outside of the Vale knew who I really was. Only Littlefinger."

Stretching her hand out again Sansa stared into the fire, its crackling light reflecting in her eyes.

"Until we reached Winterfell.

Baelish met with Roose Bolton, to discuss the distribution of land amongst those who submitted to the Boltons. House Karstark is happy to stand with them, and half of House Umber are moving to join.

As he consorted with the new Warden of the North, I was to befriend his new wife, and his bastard Ramsay. I had nothing to fear from them, Baelish said. We would learn what we could of the Bolton's plans, then travel to the Eyrie as we rallied those in the North who still hold faith to House Stark.

When the time was right, I was to be revealed, and we would take back my home."

Sansa looked at Jon.

"_Our_ home."

Jon listened intently before he asked, "So what happened?"

Sansa's features turned hard and cold.

"Young Ramsay was returning from a hunt with his dogs in tow, still licking the blood off their chops. His mad lover, Myranda, was with him…"

Her voice seized, and she visibly braced herself.

"And so was Theon. The poor man was a shell of himself, his hair brittle and frayed, his hands marked with scars.

Theon tended to the dogs and returned to Ramsay's side. Lord Bolton came out to do business with his new son and heir as Theon waited for his next command.

I saw him, and before long he saw me. Took one look at me and froze.

He knew.

I left, walking to the other side of the castle. I couldn't look back, no matter how much I wanted to. I couldn't go to him or everything would fall to ruin."

"But it _was_ ruined," Jon said bitterly. "Wasn't it? Theon was a slave, you told me. Lord Bolton is many things, but he's no fool. Men like him and his son see their slave so disturbed, no chance they let him keep it a secret."

"They made him talk." Sansa's arms crossed, and Jon saw one of her thumbs scratching against her upper arm quickly.

"Theon told me he tried to stay quiet. For the first time in months, he tried to remember who he was. Theon Greyjoy, not _Reek_. But Ramsay had done his work on the man too well, and he broke.

Lord Bolton and his men killed our escort, Ramsay himself forced me out to the courtyard where Baelish was waiting. He was on the ground, at the end of a sword.

They considered what to do with us. Given his way I can't imagine what Ramsay would have done, but it wasn't up to him, thank the Gods."

Slowly, Jon felt the fear and pain in her voice turning to anger.

"They gave Baelish a choice. Surrender the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark and be on his way to the capital, or the Vale, any place that would have him. Or stay, and face whatever sick games Ramsay could think of."

Sansa shook her head violently and her features were contorted in a look of utter disgust. Jon had never seen her so frustrated, so thoroughly enraged. "The slimy, selfish old bastard left. He _left_ me. Took one look at me, and all he could say was '_I'm sorry'_. Without another word he took his things, mounted a horse given to him on his way out, and he was gone.

I was trapped in that place for a week, a hostage of the monsters that butchered our brother, and my mother. If Theon had not helped me escape, Lord Bolton would have me married to his son. The bastard who flayed, raped and tortured for no other reason than he enjoyed it.

During King Stannis's battle in the ice against the Bolton army, Theon led me out of the castle. The only one standing in our way was Myranda, but Theon saw to it she wouldn't come after us.

Ramsay and his father are still out there, though. Still ruling from the castle that belongs to _us._"

"They will answer for this," Jon said reassuringly. "And Littlefinger. When King Stannis is healthy and ready to ride once more, we will send ravens telling the North he yet lives. The North will rally to you both.

House Hornwood and Cerwyn still hold many men in reserve, and the Free Folk will lend their support to him if I advise it. You will need to reach out to Lords Manderly and Glover as well."

Sansa then peered at Jon expectantly.

"And you? You'll ride with us, won't you?"

Jon did not answer. He had known Sansa would ask sooner or later, yet he could not think of anything to say.

"Jon… We can't do this without you. The free folk and Stannis trust you, clearly more than they trust each other. And Lady Brienne would be more willing to serve us than the king. Something happened between them in the past, something that she will not speak of. But there's clearly no love between them.

When we found him, wounded and lost after the battle, it took some… convincing until she agreed not to kill Stannis."

"All the better that you stay with them," Jon answered evasively. "The free folk will be torn in their loyalties if I'm there. Joining you now, it will only complicate things."

"Winterfell is our home. We have to fight for it!"

Jon walked away, unable to look at Sansa now.

"Fighting is all I've done since I left home. I'm tired of it. I've lied and betrayed. I've broken oaths. I slayed free folk beyond count in a pointless battle and executed men I trusted as brothers. I hung a boy, Sansa. In my last act as Lord Commander, I killed a boy younger than _Bran_.

I've lost this fight, Sansa. What good can I be to you or Stannis now?"

Sansa walked to Jon, turning him around. with a sympathetic gaze.

"You are my family. And Winterfell is our home. _Your_ home. I want you by my side when we reclaim it.

But if I must do it on my own, then so be it."

Despite all the pain he could yet see in her, and the horror she had no doubt been subjected to at Winterfell, Jon was shaken by the conviction that rang in Sansa's every word.

She was not afraid. She was angry This was a side of her he had not seen before.

It only struck him now just how much he underestimated her. _She survived King's Landing and Winterfell. She's stronger than I thought possible._

In Sansa, Jon did not see the girl he knew when he last left Winterfell.

Jon saw a wolf.

* * *

**OLD WYK**

Yara Greyjoy stood solemnly on the beach, listening to the crash of the waves.

The day was windy and grey, and her people's ships were rocked back and forth as each crew stepped off onto the island.

A perfect day for a Kingsmoot, she thought. Many had come, and many would surely press their claim to the Seastone Chair with her father gone. Lords lesser and greater would come and say their piece, each telling the others why the Iron Islands should place their faith in him.

_Or **her.**_

"Yara."

The captain of the Black Wind looked behind her. Dressed in the garment of a prince once more, trimmed and bathed after what must have been months, her brother Theon had joined her at last.

"I'd almost forgotten how beautiful it was," Theon said in a broken voice. "The sound of the waves. The salty air. I thought I'd never get to feel it again."

It wasn't easy to recognize him upon his return, and even now it rattled Yara to see what had become of him. His hair had greyed significantly, and even with the leather gloves he was wearing it was clear three of Theon's fingers were missing.

But it was still him.

"Neither did I," Yara said bluntly, and she started to walk with him along the cliff. Far ahead of them was a hill marked with the ribs of a monstrous, long-dead sea dragon.

Nagga's Hill. The place where the Ironborn would choose their ruler.

"Who are you facing today," asked Theon, "How many have come?"

"Enough to be warrant concern. Father's death stirred almost every man of means to take his place, and once again our people are as ready to fight one another as they are the rest of Westeros."

The siblings marched all the way to Nagga's Hill, as the rest of the Ironborn gathered around the priest of the Drowned God. Aeron Greyjoy, the Damphair. Tall and gaunt, with lanky grey hair that hung as far as his waist.

Clad in dark and supple robes, the brother to the deceased Greyjoy king raised his arms and spoke loudly to the assembled Kingsmoot.

"Our ruler, my brother Balon, has left this world and joined his forefathers in the depths of the sea.

But what is dead may never die."

Around them, the Ironborn repeated the words. Theon and Yara joined suit, their voices joined in a solemn chorus of sorts.

"What is dead may never die."

One voice stood out from the rest, one deeper and stronger. Yara allowed herself a look at the source. An Ironborn warrior, clad in dark armor, standing taller than any other man in his presence. He bore a strong resemblance to Balon Greyjoy, though he was a younger man with bolder, broader features. An impressive beard was growing across his face, one still damp from the spray of the ocean. Black leather, chain mail and steel plate protected the man, and a powerful axe rested against his hip.

The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. Victarion Greyjoy.

Yara's uncle noticed her looking in his direction, and returned her gaze with a hard, unpleasant glare. Not doubt, he knew her intentions. Victarion was a simple man, Yara knew, a man steeped deeply in their traditions. He would not easily accept a woman claiming the throne, even one of his own blood.

"You have come here," the Damphair proclaimed, "To the ancient seat of the Grey King himself, to stake your claim to the Seastone Chair and rule over the Ironborn.

Who amongst you will now speak in the presence of the Drowned God? Who would see himself as our king? Who will lead us?

Present your tribute now and make yourself known to us."

Aeron stepped backwards, beckoning his fellow Ironborn to come forth. The board was open, set for any player to join in the game their people had known for ages.

A tall and thin man stepped forward with three younger champions in tow. Each carried a chest of modest size.

Clad in rough ornaments forged from the teeth of sharks, the lord bowed his head in respect to Aeron.

"I am Gylbert, Lord of the Lonely Light and head of House Farwynd. I claim the Seastone Chair."

The youngest of the three men beside Gylbert opened the chests, and his companions withdrew the gifts. Beautiful sealskins and warhorns plated in bronze. The eldest then held aloft two bundles of polished whalebone.

He proclaimed, "I, Gyles, stand with my father. As does my brother Ygon, and Yohn. As king he will lead our people, the Ironborn, to lands beyond the Sunset Sea. Lands where death will hold no sway over any man."

Ygon followed in suit. "Beyond the sea, each man will find himself a king, and his wives queens to rule alongside him."

"Nymeria of the Rhoynar," Yohn preached enthusiastically, "Once led her people on such a voyage many ages ago. Her legacy lasts even to today. Name our father, Gylbert Farwynd, your king. Follow him to a beautiful new future for all our race!"

Murmurs of curiosity rippled through the Kingsmoot. Some of the men peered greedily at the bronze warhorns, but the sealskins and bones drew jeers and looks of scorn. Soon cries of dismissal rang out, and the elder Farwyned looked around in apparent surprise.

It was as if he had expected to be welcomed with open arms, and his message taken as some divine truth.

"Why don't you speak for yourself, old man?" The booming voice of Victarion Greyjoy silenced most of the racket. He walked out with his axe trailing behind him, and regarded the Farwynds hatefully.

"You speak of _beauty_, of peace and a new land on which to settle on far from our home. You would have us abandon the Old Way. Blasphemy!

_Blasphemy!_"

The congregation soon took up the cry, and the Farwynds withdrew to the outer perimeter. It was a pitiful sight, and Yara might have felt some pity for Lord Gylbert if his message had not been so thoroughly absurd. The Farwynds had some reputation as being tied to the strange and the mystic, and the lord himself did not seem to fully grasp his situation now.

He did not appear devastated or offended. Just confused.

Silly old man.

"Let us turn to reality." Free of any opposition, and now at the heart of the Kingsmoot, Victarion was free to begin.

"To the ways that served us for generations. I am Victarion Greyjoy. Captain of the Iron Victory, and Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. Brother of your departed king. I claim the Seastone Chair!"

Three men accompanied the proud warrior. Nute the Barber, draped in chains of gold laced with precious gems. Red Ralf Stonehouse, who dropped a chest filled to the brim with gold and silver. Ralf the Limber was the last, and from a heavy sack he tossed nearly a dozen jewels out to the crowd, baiting them to come and take the loot.

"Balon trusted me above all to aid him in his wars of conquest. I served him well, served all of _you_ well in my years at sea. When he first claimed a crown, I sailed to Lannisport to light a torch under the lion's tail."

Laughter rang across the Kingsmoot. Though the Greyjoy Rebellion had ultimately failed none could deny the burning of the Lannister fleet had dealt a humiliating blow to the mainland.

"This war saw us take Robb Stark's own kingdom out from under him. The Boltons wish to oust us. I say we strike first. Build our fleet up, stronger than ever, and set ourselves upon the Boltons. Let my gifts serve as a taste of what awaits you, when we renew our conquests of old.

We are Ironborn! And we will fight on!"

The Kingsmoot was moved. Soon many tossed Victarion's gifts to one another and cheered.

In one voice, half the assembly chanted the captain's name.

"VICTARION!

VICTARION!"

"To what end?"

In a single stroke, the one voice of dissent cut down Victarion's celebration. All at once they knew the Kingsmoot was far from over, as Yara faced down her uncle.

"I am Yara Greyjoy. Daughter of Balon Greyjoy. Captain of the Black Wind. My champion is my brother, Theon Greyjoy. I claim the Seastone Chair."

A bloated, pig-faced Ironborn man called out angrily, "A woman leading us? Madness!"

With a cold, contemptuous sneer Yara spat on the ground near the man.

"This _woman_ was raised to raid, to sail, to fight as well as any of you. I served my father proudly, and with the utmost loyalty. I promise all of you, he meant more to me than you could possibly imagine.

Yet if we are to honor the man, truly honor him, we must not let lies become his legacy. My entire life, I have watched our men sail off to fight and die in wars we could not win. My father bravely fought against the Iron Throne twice. And both times, many good men paid the price for it."

Victarion bristled at her words.

"You do not honor your father's memory. You drag it through the dirt, girl!"

"Who dishonors him more," Yara retorted, "The one who would see the fighting ended, and let our people rebuild? Or one who would lead all our people to the grave?

If we follow you, uncle, we will incur the wrath of all the North, not just the Boltons. We will be outnumbered, outmatched. Just as before. And any of you who know the Boltons understand they will show no mercy. They will leave no survivors of our race as the Starks did."

The air of triumph that Victarion stirred in the Kingsmoot was all but blown away as the harsh truth of Yara's words beat down on all of them. None of them would say it out loud, but she was right, and they knew it.

"Then what tribute have you to offer us, daughter of Balon? You say you served your father well, what have you to show for it?"

Yara nodded, having expected such a challenge. "Yes. I do have something to show you all."

She raised a hand, beckoning several of her crew that had come to support her. They carried half a dozen large bags, and the size and number of their offerings seized the attention of all around them.

"You want _treasures_? Here are the treasures our husbands, brothers, fathers and sons won in the North."

Her crew opened the sacks, and all the Ironborn groaned at what fell out.

"Cobblestones. Once part of the castles we occupied during our invasion, castles now lost to us.

Pinecones from trees we may have cut down and made into timber for ships, had we not been driven out by a numerically superior foe.

Turnips, one of the few scraps of food we could scavenge."

Yara drew her dirk, stabbing it into a turnip and holding it aloft. The piece was now quite rotten, and the stench caused more than one man to grimace.

"My house's words ring true. We do not sow. But if we are to survive, if we are to endure in a world that has moved on from the old ways…

Perhaps we should too."

"Abandon the Old Way?" Victarion balked at her bold claim.

"You call yourself loyal, you call yourself Ironborn. Yet you mock our traditions. What would you have us do? Withdraw our fleets, sue for peace with the North?"

Yara placed a hand on her hip and faced Victarion defiantly.

"Yes, actually. I would."

Shock and disbelief broke out in the Kingsmoot. Those who were not stunned into silence bellowed angrily at Yara, cursing her with any foul name they could. Yet she remained, firmly planted in the midst of it all.

"Can any of you," she shouted at last above the din, "Tell me what can be gained from staying our course?"

There was no answer, and the arguing dimmed down to reluctant grumbles.

"Our rebellion failed. Our invasion failed. Now we stand few against many on a continent that hates us, but no longer fears us. If we are to live, our ways must change.

You who have sailed with me, you know I am neither mad nor incompetent. You know me to be reasonable, loyal to our islands like no other. But we have been shackled by the Old Way. We serve it, not the other way around.

And it will destroy us."

A bitter silence met her. None answered her speech, and she turned her head this way and that, anticipating a rebuttal.

The tension was at last broken by Aeron himself.

"Niece," he remarked solemnly. "It pains me to hear you speak so. There is reason in your words, yet those of us devoted to the Drowned God and the kings of old fear what the unknown future may hold should we abandon their ways.

I cannot influence the choice of the men here. But I must ask what your brother has to say."

Yara closed her eyes, gritting her teeth in frustration. This moment had been coming the whole time, she knew it.

"Theon Greyjoy," one Ironborn sailor worn by years of fighting and travel called out.

"You are Balon Greyjoy's last son. What say you?"

One by one, every head in the Kingsmoot swiveled to Theon. He visibly trembled, looking like he wanted to vanish into thin air rather than speak to all of them.

"What do I say?" Theon's voice cracked, and Yara shook her head. Her brother appeared to ask the question more to himself than anyone. The former prisoner's eyes darted around at the warriors looking to him for guidance.

"What do I say…"

In a flash, Theon's eyes suddenly brightened. His posture straightened and the young prince seemed to gain some vestige of his former self. Theon's attention turned to Yara, and he breathed in, opening his mouth to talk at last.

"I am Theon. Son of Balon. And brother to the bravest woman our kingdom has ever known. I support her."

The crew members of the _Black Wind_ approved, boldened by his words.

"Aye," they said in unison, lifting Yara's spirits.

"I was prisoner of House Bolton for months on end. I was tortured, broken into a shell of what I once was. I almost forgot my own name before it was over. But even in those months of pain and despair, I remembered the woman I grew up beside.

Those who sailed under her, you know her as I do. She is a reaver. A captain as gifted as any man among you. She was Balon's heir in life, and she remains so even now!"

"_Aye!_" The Greyjoy siblings' entourage again shouted their approval.

And this time, others joined them.

"And when I escaped from the North I did not do so alone. I made an ally. We, the Ironborn, have an ally that can help us move on a path to peace."

Baelor Blacktyde, a handsome and well-dressed bannerman of House Greyjoy asked, "Who is this ally?"

Theon glanced at Yara, who gave him the signal to continue.

"Sansa Stark. Heir to Winterfell. By now she is likely at Castle Black, with her brother Jon Snow and King Stannis Baratheon."

The Ironborn were horrified at the mention of the king's name.

"Yes," Yara remarked before another row could arise. "Stannis Baratheon lives. But if he is to ally with the Starks, they may retake the North. And when that happens, my brother and Lady Sansa will negotiate peace."

"The Baratheons crushed your father's rebellion," Victarion snarled. "What good will it do to ally with him now?"

"We are _not_ allying with him" Yara said, rolling her eyes.

"We are allying with the last heir to House Stark. Theon and Sansa saved each other's lives escaping from the Boltons. That debt will be repaid when the North cede land to us, land that we will cultivate and use however we see fit.

The Stony Shore, and Sea Dragon Point."

The Ironborn's demeanor was changing. A spark of hope was moving almost half of them, and in front of them all Baelor Blacktyde stared at her.

"You will lead us to peace. Abandoning the Old Way but finding a new path."

The lord briefly looked at Victarion.

"Would you accept such peace, Lord Captain?"

Victarion fumed, his glare growing ever darker.

"Never."

"Then the choice is clear." Baelor walked across the Kingsmoot to stand beside the Greyjoy children.

"I stand with Yara Greyjoy."

Those in Baelor's retinue followed him.

"Aye!"

Theon seized his chance again.

"As do I. She is our greatest hope to grow strong again. It doesn't matter that she's a woman, it doesn't matter that she strays from the Old Way. She is Ironborn, and with her we make the word mean something again.

She is our queen! Yara Greyjoy!"

At last the balance of power in the Kingsmoot had shifted. Half the Ironborn rallied to the younger Greyjoys, chanting Yara's name.

But the other half remained by Victarion's side. Bellowing their support for the elder captain they began to trade jeers and taunts with the opposition. Some shoved one another, and Baelor Blacktyde even traded a punch with Red Ralf, sending the raider to the ground.

Aeron raised his hand to calm them as a brawl was ready to break out.

But as his lips parted, a different sound that broke through the Kingsmoot.

Yara's ears rang, feeling as if they had been both been clapped harshly. It was as if a host of demons had broken out from all seven hells, or the dead kings of the Ironborn were at once rising from their depths screaming for war and ruin.

The sound died off, and Yara realized she had fallen to her knees. So had everyone else, in fact, even Victarion who rested against the handle of his axe to stay up.

"What…"

As the ringing vanished from her ears, Yara staggered to her feet and searched for the source of the horrid sound.

She found her answer in a steady drumbeat from the shore. With the other Ironborn in tow, Yara walked to the edge of Nagga's Hill and peered at the water.

A ship was resting in the ocean, one that had not been there when the Kingsmoot had gathered. Around the vessel, the winds and waves were picking up.

Yara's blood chilled at the sight of it. Atop the ship was a single black mast, mounted by black sails. The front of the ship was a woman forged from iron, with black pearl eyes. The hull was as red as fresh gore.

The _Silence_. A ship feared throughout all the known world.

A drumbeat came from the ship, and from a dozen longboats pulling closer to the edge of the island. Men marked with various scars and tattoos rowed the boats, and in one Yara saw a massive dark object. It appeared to be a horn of some kind, covered in gold and dark steel bands, marked with symbols she could not decipher.

But the strange object did not hold Yara's attention for long. In the lead boat, slouched leisurely to one side, was the captain of the _Silence_.

He was dressed in a heavy leather coat and dark red jerkin, with two belts were draped across him carrying a knife, a small axe and a longsword. His left eye was covered in a dark patch, and his blue lips were parted in a wide smile.

Euron Greyjoy stepped out of the longboat when it was close enough to shore, swaggering through the waves brazenly. The infamous pirate captain moved slowly, deliberately, with his one blue eye trained on the crowd that awaited him.

When he reached the sand, Euron stopped and turned to gaze around him. A wistful, sentimental look decorated his pale face, and he looked almost intoxicated.

"Oh," he said at last in a breathy voice.

"It's so _good_ to be home."

Euron's attention fell to Yara and her brother, and he walked to them. Instinctively Yara placed herself shoulder to shoulder with Theon.

"Niece. Nephew."

For a moment Euron donned an almost pleasant smile and raised his hand, rustling the boy's hair.

"Little Theon. You've grown. As have you, Yara, my what a proud sight you are."

He looked past them, scanning the crowd.

"Victarion, Aeron, where are you? I know you're in there somewhere."

Aeron Greyjoy rose from the Ironborn and pointed at the exiled pirate with a look of utter condemnation, with Victarion close behind. "This is no longer your home, brother. You are not welcome."

"Good to see you too." Euron answered Aeron with a smirk, barely even registering Victarion before he turned to the men under his command. Whistling loudly, he beckoned them to him.

"Uncle," Yara said slowly and cautiously. "We had not heard you were coming."

"Aeron's summons reached every sea, at every corner of the world. When I heard Balon had passed I thought I would come. Pay my respects."

He grinned again.

"What is dead may never die."

After a collective pause, the Ironborn repeated him. But there was little feeling behind the words. Euron, Yara remembered, always had a talent for unsettling anyone around him no matter how and brave.

"And to stake a claim. I, Euron Greyjoy, captain of the Silence and brother to Balon Greyjoy, claim the Seastone Chair."

"You are banished!" Aeron's voice turned shrill.

"You have no claim."

Victarion's face reddened and he reluctantly groaned, "The banishment was to last as long as our eldest brother lived. He has passed now. The law cannot keep Euron out now."

Euron lit up, laughing excitedly as he pointed at Victarion. "Very good! You're not as much of a dullard as I remember. Words cannot express how proud of you I am."

Speaking at last to the other Ironborn Euron started to stroll by each man. His one eye met each of theirs one by one, showing strength befitting of a raider of his skill and experience.

"My brother was a noble man. A proud, brave man. But let's not lie to ourselves. He was leading us nowhere. I'm sure young Yara has already admitted as much, she was never one to dance around these things.

I remember the days when those on the mainland whispered _Ironborn_ in fear. I remember tales of old. The Grey King. Houses Greyiron and Hoare. Harren the Black, who built the mighty fortress of Harrenhal.

Our strength was known through all Westeros. We were respected, and we were feared. Would you like to see those days restored?"

Some of the men agreed vocally, though uncertainty hung over them.

"And how exactly would you see such a dream fulfilled?" Theon asked skeptically.

"Are you going to tell us you've atoned for your sins. Were you born again, gallivanting around the world?"

"Gallivanting?" Euron chuckled at his nephew's cheek.

"Well, well, those Northerners schooled you well, using such fancy words. What a fine young _man_ you've become, Theon."

Euron's eye flickered downwards before it fixed on Theon again.

Theon did not answer, instead shrinking visibly. Yara's ears burned as the meaning of Euron's mockery hit her and her fist clenched tight enough to hurt.

"What do you offer us, Euron? More war? More death?"

"I offer you the _world_."

Euron's crew of mutes were all onshore now. Each held a black box, and with a snap of their leader's fingers they all gathered in a circle. The boxes were opened and upended.

Piles of treasure fell before the Ironborn. Not just gold and silver, but precious sculptures of jade and marble. Necklaces adorned with precious stones, idols of foreign gods Yara did not know.

The pile grew larger and larger by the moment, and every Ironborn gasped at the sight of it. By the end of it, the bounty was larger than all the other tributes put together. Large enough to fill several longboats.

Euron reached into the hoard and pulled out a handful of gold, dropping the coins one by one.

"While you all danced to Balon's tune, I _gallivanted_ across every sea. I have seen wonders and horrors you cannot imagine. I sailed farther than any Ironborn before me.

Even to the Smoking Sea. To the ruins of old Valyria itself. It's where I found this."

He pointed to the great black horn still sitting in one of the longboats.

"The horn of a long dead dragon. Forged by the Valyrians. A dragonbinder."

"Of what use will it be to us?" Victarion asked. "If what you say is true, what will your sorcery gain us."

"Conquest, by means of dragons. There are three young dragons right now, alive and well far away in Essos. Their mother is a young queen who has as much reason to hate the lords of Westeros as we do.

A queen with an army, three dragons…"

Euron spread his arms proudly.

"And no _husband_."

The Ironborn listened raptly. Those who did not stare at the treasure or the so-called dragonbinder greedily were fixed on Euron.

"How will I see our dreams fulfilled, you ask? I'm going to take our best ships and this horn, I'm going to gallivant over to Essos, and present them all to Daenerys Targaryen. I will claim her as my queen, if I can, and with her dragons at my beck and call our enemies will crumble before us!"

A cheer answered him. The Kingsmoot was turning yet again, and Yara knew it would be the last time.

"You're going to seduce the dragon queen? Is that how you will win this war?"

"Seduce? Ha!" Euron laughed harshly.

"I will take what I wish. I am Ironborn."

Blazing with confidence, Euron drew his sword.

"_We are Ironborn._ And long ago we were conquerors. What would you do, to see us become conquerors again? Victarion, you would see us keep the North. Yara, Theon, you ask us to give that up and settle for even less.

My people… Name me king. I will give you the greatest cities of Westeros. Not just Winterfell, but Lannisport. Highgarden. King's Landing. All the lands, all the riches. North and south, east and west, I say we will take it all!

_I say, we take Westeros!_"

The Kingsmoot roared in one voice.

"_EURON!_"

The Crow's Eye joined them, thrusting his sword up in the air with a mad grin.

And as Yara, Baelor, Theon, Aeron and Victarion watched, he cried out in victory.

* * *

_**...**_

It was sunset, and Theon rested dejectedly against the mast of the _Black Wind_. Old Wyk and the other Iron Islands were specks in the distance, and any sound of celebration was too far off now to hear.

He wondered how long it would be before the new king realized he and Yara were gone.

His sister walked up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sorry, Theon. I'm afraid your lady Sansa will have to wait."

"I failed her," Theon whispered past the lump in his throat. "What do we do now?"

"We find another way." Yara did not look back to the island, instead staring ahead to the open sea.

"A dozen ships, and a dozen crews. Those of us unwilling to accept someone like Euron will have to find a stronger ally if we are to survive against him."

Theon looked to the starboard of their ship. The impressive longship _Nightflyer_ sailed alongside them. Baelor Blacktyde stood at the head of his vessel.

"Euron will need time to consolidate his power before he sends men out to find this dragon queen. So, we will find her first. Gain her favor.

And avenge our father."

Theon understood Yara's meaning all too well. It could not have been coincidence that a man like their uncle Euron would return and claim the crown just as Balon died.

He was a treacherous, unpredictable man. But if it was true, and Balon indeed died by his hand, then the future looked all the darker for their people. The Iron Islands were now in the hands of a tyrant as mad as Ramsay Bolton or Joffrey Baratheon, yet far more cunning.

_Gods help us._

Well into the night, King Euron Greyjoy stood at a cliff over the raging ocean with a glass of wine in his hand. The liquid was an odd blue.

Shade of the evening. Many detested the wine, but to Euron it was the sweetest of them all.

Euron downed the glass gleefully before taking a seat on the cliffside. How easy it was, he thought. How quickly these people fell to his words and gifts.

How predictable.

The voice of Victarion caught his attention.

"My king."

Euron snickered, not turning to face his little brother.

"How it must pain you to call me that."

"That does not matter. You won the Kingsmoot. The law requires that I serve you." It sounded like Victarion was forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

"That it does," Euron replied.

"What news do you bring, Lord Captain?"

Victarion paused before answering.

"Our niece and nephew are nowhere to be found. As you were crowned, they vanished. As did several other captains."

Euron twirled the glass in his hand. "How many ships did they take?"

"Twelve."

"Only twelve." Euron at last faced Victarion. "Then we will build more. When our strength is gathered, have your men sail to the nearest mainland settlement. Do what you do best. Find every tree you can, and have our builders replace what our niece and nephew took.

We will take what is ours, brother. We will take all the world."

Victarion nodded dutifully and walked off. Returning his view to the ocean Euron laughed softly and then sat down. Once more he was left in blessed silence.

Content, knowing he was alone safe for the presence of his loyal guard, Euron removed his eyepatch and looked to the starry sky.

And in a heartbeat, the color of his right eye began to change.

* * *

**CASTLE BLACK**

In the common hall, the brothers of the Watch and their guests broke fast together. At the far side of the hall, well removed from them, King Stannis Baratheon looked over a map of the North.

The king's wounds were healing slowly but steadily. He still required the use of a crutch, but any infection from his wounds was done with and his vigor was restored after several days of rest. Stannis's dark blue eyes roamed across the map, marking each location grimly.

Listed in red were the houses still in league with House Bolton and their strongest ally House Karstark. Winterfell, the Dreadfort, and Karhold were the centers of power now in the North.

Sighing in annoyance, Stannis moved a red marker to another castle, Last Hearth.

"You have read the latest message by now, I assume?"

Swiveling his head back Stannis looked at Jon Snow, who sat at the nearest table next to Eddison Tollett and Tormund Giantsbane.

"The lord of House Umber, the Greatjon. He has been released from captivity, in exchange for their fealty. The Umbers stand with Roose Bolton now."

Jon's heart sank at the thought. The Umbers had lost a good many men serving his brother Robb. While the Greatjon had been made a hostage, his son was kept under supervision at Last Heart after the Red Wedding.

"The Smalljon did what he thought he had to do," Jon said, "To save his father."

Stannis shook his head and gave the map one more look over before limping to join Jon.

"Sentimental gestures and desperate bargains don't concern me, Snow. The bulk of my own host was killed in the last battle. If we are to fight Roose Bolton again, and win, we need allies."

For just a moment Jon peered around Stannis at the map. "Ravens came today from the Hornwoods and Cerwyns, just as we expected. They are with us. You should also expect to pick up the aid of the Mazins,"

"What about the Mormonts?"

Jon grimaced, remembering the letter they received from Bear Island some time ago.

"All you'll need to do is let my sister speak to her. When it's understood we march on a united front, those still loyal to our house will follow you as well."

Stannis sat down with a dull grunt, pushing his crutch aside.

"It won't be enough."

The older man's lips curled in a resigned half-smile.

"But it is a start."

Though he did not show it, Jon had known the man long enough to sense the pain still eating away at him.

Stannis was a quiet man. Unmoving, stoic to a fault sometimes. Yet even then his almost constant silence after returning from his failed campaign disturbed Jon. It reminded him of the day he learned of his father's death in King's Landing.

How he had nearly rode off into the night, ready to leave his oath to the Watch behind without a word and take revenge.

That pain, and the desperate need for a release, Stannis felt it now. Jon knew it.

"We will succeed, Your Grace." Ser Davos Seaworth looked encouragingly at his king from the fireplace. The old smuggler had spent several minutes warming his stump-figures.

"We will. I swear it."

"A great many people have sworn a great many things to me, Ser Davos. We cannot know for sure now until the moment comes. And I am finished placing my faith in things I do not know."

The hairs on the back of Jon's head stood up as Stannis's eyes darted in the direction of the Silent Tower. The place in which Lady Melisandre now rested.

"The priestess was still of some use after all," Davos admitted reluctantly. "Her prayers to the red god helped Jon Snow when he was in greatest need."

Stannis grinded his teeth.

"And what good did any of those prayers do my wife? My daughter? They lie somewhere under a blanket of snow, lost forever.

No more superstition. No more prayers. We will win this fight the way it was meant to be won. Through our strength, and our wits."

Stannis's eyebrows raised as he watched Jon.

"I hope you will change your mind and join us, Snow. Those of the free folk who choose to walk free, it's said you are thinking of going with them. I know you see no future for yourself in war. But now I ask you not just as your king, but as one man to another.

Reconsider. This may be the only chance your house survives."

Jon could feel both Davos and Stannis's gazes on him. No one seemed willing to let him walk away.

"Sansa and I spoke on this matter," Jon answered carefully. "I have not made a decision yet."

"Time is running out, Jon Snow. You will have to make it quickly.

The Long Night is coming."

Taking his crutch Stannis left, returning to the map. Davos and Jon remained behind, watching the king as he leaned over it again.

"I detest the old bastard," Tormund remarked. "But I won't deny it, he's resilient."

Davos's voice rang with a mix of admiration and concern when he replied, "It won't last forever. Every man reaches their breaking point.

It's been said of the Baratheon brothers Robert was the truest steel. Renly was copper. Shiny and pleasant to behold. But nearly worthless in the end.

Stannis is iron, black and strong. But he's not flexible. He will break before he bends. I'm not sure how many more tragedies and failures can befall him before that happens."

Jon shook his head. "He won't break. With you and Sansa by his side, he still has a chance."

Clapping the knight on the shoulder Jon took a flagon of ale and walked to sit by Sansa, who was doing her best to cut apart a hard chunk of ham. Lady Brienne of Tarth was close by, towering over the girl. Her squire Podrick Payne sat opposite Sansa.

"I'll be outside," Jon told his sister. "I let Ghost out early, to walk across the outskirts of the castle. He should be back by now."

Sansa answered Jon with a warm smile. "We'll be here."

"Lord Snow," Brienne said respectfully.

Jon allowed himself a pause, fighting back the urge to laugh. Lord Snow. It was strange to hear someone use that title as anything other than an insult.

His joy was cut short when a ranger of the Watch walked into the hall.

"A messenger is here, from the south. He asks for you, Lord Commander."

Jon gave the man a stern look.

"I'm not Lord Commander anymore," he said irritably and picked up a spare cloak.

"Edd, come with me."

The two brothers in arms departed the common hall and stepped out into the cold together. In the courtyard, two horsemen waited for them. The first was an old, armored guard carrying a standard, the other was fair-haired and looked rather young. A thin sword and cruel looking dagger rested at his side, as did a long whip.

Jon's path was brought to a grinding halt. Fluttering above the riders was a dark flag adorned with the image of a flayed man.

"Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell."

The younger Bolton rider dismounted his horse, and before Jon could say anything, he withdrew a letter marked with a grotesque red and pink seal.

Taking the letter, Jon glanced the man warily as he returned to his horse.

"My lord waits for an answer, bastard."

Then the man left with his guard, leaving Castle Black in a hurry.

Jon stared at him for a while, then started toward the hall again. "Keep an eye out for any others, I want no surprises," he hissed to Edd.

Edd nodded and called a group of rangers to watch over the Bolton messengers. A loud growl signaled to Jon that they had company, and from the edge of the courtyard the wolf Ghost appeared, baring his fangs.

Jon allowed himself a grim smile, one that vanished as quickly as it came as his attention was drawn back to the letter.

He entered the hall and all faces turned to him. Jon's fingers stiffened, and he nearly concealed the letter from Sansa. With some difficulty he forced himself to go to her, undoing the wax seal on the letter.

"Messengers from House Bolton wait outside," he said shakily.

The air in the groom turned dour, and all present set down whatever they were doing. Even Tormund put aside a hefty rib he had gnawed into, watching his friend with apprehension.

Lifting the letter, Jon began to read it, dreading each word.

"_To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow._

_ You have betrayed the realm and allowed thousands of the wretched Wildlings past the Wall in betrayal of your oaths to the Night's Watch. Surrender, and answer for your crimes._

_ Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see._"

_ Your brother…_"

Jon's words caught in his throat.

At the word _brother_ Sansa's eyes widened, and her face was soon devoid of any color.

"_Your brother Rickon Stark is in my dungeons. A gift from House Umber, and the means by which I will subjugate all the North. His direwolf's skin is on my floor, come and see._

_ If you wish to see your brother, you will do as I command. I want my bride-to-be back. I want the false king and his red whore. His wife and daughter are dead, and it is well past time he joins them._"

Even from where he was standing, Stannis's hatred was unmistakable. From his place by the map, he glowered at the letter as if it was Ramsay himself, and he would rip it to pieces when Jon was finished.

"_Give them to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you, your black crows or your wildlings. Keep them from me, and I will ride north to slaughter every man, woman and child under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living…_"

When Jon reached the last words of the letter he stopped, unable to speak them.

"Finish it," Sansa asked in a low and dangerous tone that caught Jon off guard. The same rage that filled her when talking of Petyr Baelish now emanated from her once again, stronger this time.

When Jon tried and failed to go on, Sansa reached out and plucked the letter from his hands. She read what was left in a flat and emotionless manner.

"_You will watch as I make your sister a woman, then my soldiers will take turns with her as well. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest._

_ Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see._

_ Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North._"

When it was done Sansa dropped the letter and clasped her hands tightly.

Jon said nothing at first, attempting to process everything in that foul message. The words felt seared into his mind, and even as he no longer looked at the page, he could still see every letter. Every drop of ink was a drop of poison, eating away at him slowly.

"Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North…" he rasped.

"How?"

Sansa leaned back in her chair.

"He finally did it. Ramsay killed his father. Now that lunatic is the most powerful man in the North.

And he has Rickon."

"We don't know that, he may be lying," Jon said, trying to escape the terrible certainty creeping on him him.

"_Yes, we do._"

The siblings gazed at each other, despair and helpless anger clawing at them both.

It was Tormund who finally broke the silence. "How old is your brother?" he asked gently.

"He'd be eleven by now," Sansa said.

"And how many men does he have left in his army?"

Stannis's crutch clunked heavy on the floor as he approached.

"Five thousand," she replied. "Perhaps even six thousand."

Stannis regarded Sansa with a placid expression before he tapped his crutch on the ground once, determination taking hold of his features.

"Then we must get to work quickly, my lady. I promise you, I will take your home back. If I cannot execute Roose Bolton for his crimes, his mongrel son will have to suffice. And any who dared to harm a hair on your brother's head will die with him."

His teeth gritted fiercely.

"You have my word."

Sansa exchanged a look of gratitude with the king, before her attention returned to Tormund.

"We have two thousand ready to fight. If _he_ honors Jon Snow's agreements with us and the armies join, we will do what we can to help."

Tormund barely acknowledged Stannis, only giving him a side glance. If there was to be any kind of alliance, it was for Jon's sake. Not Stannis Baratheon's.

Then at last, Sansa and the others looked to Jon.

"Jon. It's time."

Still reeling from the letter, Jon almost did not fully hear her until he felt her hand taking his.

"Listen to me," she pleaded. "The Northern families will fight for you as much as they will for me. You're the son of the last true Warden. If you come with us, if you fight with us, others will flock to you."

"Sansa..."

"That monster has taken our home from us! He's taken what's left of our family. No more. We have to go back and reclaim them both."

There was no avoiding it. She was right, and Jon knew it.

Melisandre told him his part in this fight was not over. That he was alive for a reason.

If this was the reason, if he had to fight for no other reason than to save Rickon and Sansa…

Then he would do just that.

Jon's hand tightened around his sister's. Setting his jaw, and steeling himself for what lay ahead, the former commander of the Night's Watch gave his answer in a subtle nod.

Each of their allies present did the same. The war for the north seemed finished mere days ago, but here they stood.

Ready to fight on.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Hey, everybody.**

**So, yeah, I know what you guys are probably thinking. I've been gone more than half a year, what gives? Well, life's been absolutely nuts lately and I admittedly fell into a bit of a creative rut. Did a lot of planning for this tale here but didn't get around to writing any of it out.**

**For that I am sorry. Rest assured, it won't happen again.**

**Anyway, our return to this tale is marked with some more fleshing out of the state of the world here. As you can see, I've made some more tweaks to the events of season 5, this time regarding Sansa's story.**

**Simply put, Season 5's treatment of Sansa' story and the way it informed her going forward was disgusting. None of that shock value abuse nonsense here.**

**Stannis is still the Mannis. Whatever lies in store for him, he is still the proud, honorable and determined king we know and love.**

**Further elaborations on Ramsay's murder of his father will be added later on.**

**And in the next chapter, we will catch up with Arya and Brandon Stark, see what they're up to. And throughout the north, conspiracies will take shape and our heroes will start to build their army.**

**Catch you later, y'all! It's good to be back.**


End file.
